Category: Essays

On Cultural Relativism

In The Elements of Moral Philosophy, Rachels defines Cultural Relativism as the concept in which moral truth varies from culture to culture, and the idea that one moral code exists is a myth (16). According to ethical subjectivism, this means that judging one’s culture to be correct, or another culture to be incorrect, is merely a reflection of bias or attitude. In other words, each culture is different, but in accord with the theory of Cultural Relativism, each culture is also correct in its beliefs simply because moral beliefs are entirely subjective.

The lure of Cultural Relativism is strong, because certain facets of it do ring true; and also because it puts an end to certain controversial discussions about which coming to a moral conclusion occasionally seems impossible. The greatest value of Cultural Relativism is perhaps that it warns against the assumption of one culture’s beliefs having stemmed from rational thinking or some universal truth—in almost every case, a social practice is done merely for the sake of tradition, and little else (29). Another important aspect of the theory is that it leads people to question their own individual beliefs about morality—opinions born of upbringing or perpetuated dogma, in many cases—which is a good thing. Acknowledging the importance of keeping an open mind about beliefs and practices is another appealing aspect of the theory (30). The theory is not without fault, however, in a world that’s evolving on the social level as rapidly as ours is at present—a world that is placing an unprecedented level of emphasis on a global economy, instantaneous communication via the ever-evolving realm of cyberspace, and the spread of new sociopolitical ideas.

As nationalism spirals toward obsolescence and the continents of the world grow ever more connected via the Internet and other satellite telecomm technology, the need for a sense of patriotism and ethnocentrism toward one’s own country begins to wane a great deal. In a world where immigration is a necessity for some to manage a decent livelihood, cultures cross-pollinate in a rapid fashion—and thereby rendering the differences between cultures less and less apparent. In fact, such interpenetration between cultures illuminates that much is shared by all cultures.

With a rise in technological and economical advancement, individual nations become more and more active within the global economy—and the opportunities for growth and social mobility become more readily available. Individuals become more confident in their own capabilities, and resultantly less bound by their own society’s standards—in the age of technology, cyberspace, and media-stoked social justice, individuality prospers more and more. Eventually, if the trend continues, cultural standards with little more than ancient tradition to support their continuation can be reasonably predicted to eventually fade. In the wake of vast advances in the medical field, for instance, less and less couples are compelled to baptize their newborn children. Where there is a purpose to be served, a single means is used to go about it—until an arguably more reliable means comes along to replace it.

While a fairly utopian idea, obviously, it’s not unreasonable to assume that the current patterns of individualism and cultural cross-pollination will continue. As this occurs, it is observable that media-fueled controversies over ethical matters will only heighten—but perhaps this is a good thing. Such strife brings about action, discussion, and inevitably change. And in a world where rapid change is occurring constantly, often going unnoticed beneath the layers upon layers of interconnected technology and evolving social dynamics, positive ethical change seems a logical goal to work toward. While cultures scarcely agree, it is certainly true that each culture has its own set of ideas to share. Through our globalizing world, and the advance of human capability, the best ideas shall rightfully rise to the surface while the unnecessary or illogical ones fade away. As long as the current sociopolitical climate does not spark another dark age, it is a reasonable hope that global civilization will only grow to be more and more understanding of the ethical truths that might have once seemed far from humanity’s grasp.

20 Essential Works of Cyberpunk Literature

BestCollegesOnline.net emailed me a link to their recently published article “20 Essential Works of Cyberpunk Literature,” and suggested that I share it here, so I’ve decided to do so. It’s a pretty good list, and some of the works I haven’t heard of, so that’s promising. The Number 1 entry is my (everyone’s?) favorite proto-cyberpunk novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick. Enjoy.

A portmanteau of “cyber” and “punk,” the cyberpunk subgenre of science fiction takes readers to the fringes of mainstream society. In worlds where technologies both benevolent and malevolent reign supreme (not to mention the occasional multinational conglomerate with pervasive political clout and the hottest machinery), writers lovingly dissect a number of different themes that question humanity’s interactions with its inorganic creations. It was a rich, exciting, thoroughly provocative movement, looking towards the future at a time when technological innovation increased at an accelerated pace. It was gritty. It was jarring. And it managed to permeate all media, with plenty of movies, comics, art and music hoping to capture the aesthetic as well.

Obviously, lists such as these are entirely subjective in nature. Omission does not render a literary work or its author irrelevant or unworthy of attention, so please consider this more of a quick primer of suggestions rather than a definitive compilation of essentials. Use them as jumping-off points, not concretes. In the interest of presenting the broader scope of the cyberpunk movement, some pieces of literature that technically fall under the label of “proto-cyberpunk” or “postcyberpunk” have been included. Any readers hoping to gain a thorough understanding of what the subgenre entails should make an effort to understand the beginning, middle and end rather than heading straight for the purely “cyberpunk.” Just relax, plug in and try to have fun instead of thrashing about in semantics debates and complaining about omissions and inclusions. [...]

The rest of the article can be found here.

A Brief Essay Regarding Ethics

Throughout the animal kingdom, there are numerous observable patterns that nature embraces, presumably through a genetically developed instinct, which serve to organize a given species into an efficient social machine. Human beings, no matter how extraordinary we may suppose ourselves to be, are scarcely different from our less arrogant neighbors upon this planet. It is of great interest to me, personally, to understand the underlying drives of humanity — and how they may explain the morals within any given society that are either universal or regional. The mechanisms of evolution and the life it fosters are so intricate that they are difficult to properly understand. Many of the problems posed by philosophical disagreement stem from the fact that, as intellectual beings, we seek answers and rationalization for an existence that may be in reality farr more simple than we wish to admit. Part of my own personal interest in philosophy, and ethics specifically, is to understand which contemporary humanistic ideals serve our underlying sense of purpose, and which are, in fact, antiquated social constructs.

For instance, one of the major issues that plagues the intellectual world is the controversy of population control. The planet is a vast landmass, full of potential for life, but how much of it is truly meant for the human empire? Is there a plan for humanity in regard to our role on this world at all? Social Darwinism might lead us to the idea that cities built beneath the waters of our oceans, or floating upon their surfaces, would give us a greater amount of space, and therefore justifies building such habitats. What of the effects on the rest of the biosphere, though? Would that not destroy creatures of lesser resourcefulness? Would the building of an ecumenopolis not disrupt and devastate the natural order of the planet? Perhaps the question is not really whether or not humanity should attempt such grandiose undertakings, but rather whether or not we could do so. If nature, in all her complexity, has managed to foster such sophisticated life-forms as human beings, then who is to argue that the Earth might not react by thwarting our ambitious efforts with extinction?

The so-called “rights” of life, which are so greatly emphasized within human civilization, are most often attributed as a natural given; this world is deemed by modern thinkers to be one of inherent liberty. Why, then, are animals — regardless of strength or number — not granted by our kind the same level of deference? Who truly believes that humankind is some divine irregularity of the universe, a sole race of great beings destined to bear the burden of sentience and an underutilized capacity for reason? I generally find myself ashamed of the arrogance and lack of vision that humanity employs in times of hardship, change, and conflict. We find it within our grasp to impose and enforce laws governing the global parameters of warfare, and yet we cannot even come within a reasonable distance of finding peace? Is there no end to competition, to the brutality that lies buried deep within the darkest depths of our animalistic ids? It often seems that war, destruction, emotional blindness, and greed threaten to ravage our species for all eternity. Where, I ask, is the purpose in that?

Identity, the Mind, and the Future

As I explore the science fiction subgenre of cyberpunk, I view its implications in a peculiar context. When Neuromancer was written, there was neither an Internet nor a working example of virtual reality to be found in the real world; they were merely conceptual items of the imagination, snippets of the possibilities that might come about through the advent of the computer age.

Today, cyberspace is — however primitive — very much alive and real. It has become an integral part of human society in an overwhelming portion of the world, and through its influence we have seem some of the most drastic changes civilization has undergone in centuries.

For example, human beings are, at their very core, merely animals of high intelligence. We take for granted our place on the Earth because of the superficial empire we’ve managed to cultivate for ourselves — but just how natural or beneficial the way in which we’ve chosen to spend our existence in this universe is questionable.

Part of the nature of humanity is the idealistic identity — the very human sense of self that has arisen as an integral construct of our global civilization. We seek individuality, an essence, a kind of inner soul to differenciate ourselves from the alarmingly similar beings who surround us. Highspeed networking on a global scale, instantaneous communication, and a virtual forum through which information can be presented, gathered, and manipulated in a space/time-defying realm have absolutely altered the lifestyles of humankind within the developed and developing world forever.

This blog, for instance, is something that would not have been possible — or certainly would not have any sort of purpose — had it been created twenty-five years ago. Today, thousands — perhaps millions, though that’s a staggering thought — of aspiring writers just like myself, probably a shocking majority of them genre/speculative fiction writers, join people like me in the act of writing weblogs for the sake of synthesizing, assimilating, and filtering information about the experience, and wisdom that might be had, in regard to the world of writing and publishing fiction.

One of the things that I’ve come to realize drives human beings to create art, to craft wondrous works of architecture or sculpture, or to write short stories, novels, et cetera, is our desire to leave a legacy — something creative, meaningful — that will hopefully outlast ourselves. Because at the core of our often anguish-filled beings is the desire to live forever. It’s something that’s explored all the time in literature — something I’ve explored in my own writing, with novelette “L.S.B.T.W.” — but which presents countless philosophical cunundrums that haunt us endlessly. It’s a troubling thought, mortality, in the context of a very understood knowledge that there’s presently no way around it. Therefore, humankind makes art. Writes. Builds. Without such avenues, sadness often overwhelms individuals.

So in the information age, when endless streams of intersecting, replicating, organizeable data continue to accumulate and evolve, what are the consequences upon the sense of self, identity? Well, I’d argue that it strengthens such ideals. Cyberspace as it currently exists serves to reinforce, strengthen, and encourage the growth of such concepts — blogging, for one, is an excellent example of how the Internet has fed humanity’s sense of its own existence.

Society, however, evolves with the basic unit that comprises it. As the founder and creator of Facebook recently acknowledged in response to questions regarding the alarming downgrades in his networking site’s security parameters, he replied, in more or less terms, that the norm of individual privacy just doesn’t exist in its prior form. Today, that norm is arguably gone — if you wish to side with the man who helped destroy it. But the real truth of the matter is, of course, that the essence of privacy is ultimately the choice of the individual, not society at large. No hand forces a Facebook profile upon you — sure, the lure of things like Facebook and Wal-Mart are as strong and heavy-handed as the Death Star’s tractor beam, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t say no to the things you disapprove of. That’s the beauty of society; you can be the change you want to see, despite how hard it may seem.

I recently came to a disturbing, perhaps obvious, revelation regarding the nature of life and perhaps the reason it’s so difficult to fully understand the nature of existence, human experience, and what constitutes a living being, human or otherwise. In an age of improving medical technology, artificial life support, advanced robotics, and the possibility of advanced virtual reality (check out what Sony’s doing in the video gaming industry; the Future with a capital F is now) or even artificial intelligence is so close to the verge of what was once purely science fiction that it’s simultaneously astonishing and frightening.

Because of humanity’s despair regarding mortality, we’ve constructed our sense of self based upon the experience of human life. The nature of that experience is a complex one, however. Our most prominent tendencies are driven by the primitive, predatory reptile brain at the core of our id, while the ego and superego are underutilized to an alarming degree — mostly badges of Humanity, which generally translates in human society into the arrogant assumption that human beings are the Supreme Beings of the Universe, better than all other forms of life, perhaps somewhat justified given how successful we’ve been in conquering and devastating much of this world — the only planet we’ve yet inhabited.

So, then, what constitutes life? Is it the experience of the advanced cerebral mind? Or is the mind merely an instrument of survival, to assure the efficiency of the material body? Or is the body merely the vessel, evolved to be strong and agile enough to ensure the survival of the superior mind? I’ve recently read that it may be possible that – laughable as the Transformers cartoon and films may be in the science fiction community — like in Arthur C. Clarke’s fantastic 2001: A Space Odyssey, there may indeed be beings so advanced mechanically and medically that they eventually, in light of the upward trend of evolutionary growth, discarded their fragile material, organic forms for indestructible mechanical ones.

So in the cybernetic age, as technology and the medical field push the boundaries of human ethics and what is truly achievable, the question at hand may lie in the complexities of life-forms like human beings. How important is the mind to the body? The body to the mind? How might a society perform in the context of a world that is inhabited by beings that have no physical forms, but are only minds? Introduce into that society mindless bodies kept alive, and how might that complicate the normative values of human culture?

It’s all a question of what it means to be human, a question that apparently hasn’t been answered yet, and hopefully never will be fully understood — because the eternal benefit of the question will be, so long as humanity avoids extinction, the presence and creation of art and literature, in whatever form.

Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell: Conviction

Splinter Cell: Conviction

I’ve been a fan of the Splinter Cell video game franchise for a long time. Since it started, in fact, with the original Splinter Cell title for Xbox in 2002. I remember the first time I played the demo, a young Halo fan with a narrow view of the gaming industry and a justifiable hard-on for Halo: Combat Evolved. There was a live-action television commercial for the game, cryptic, stylish. An actor that looked like the Sam Fisher gamers have come to know and love was loading his silenced pistol, crouched on top of a metallic medical table in some random room — I’m pretty sure it was the police precinct in Istanbul, Turkey, if it is any reflection of the original game’s storyline. Anyway, I played the demo and was immediately hooked.

The cool, seamless action, the stealthy sneaking-around gameplay, actor Michael Ironside’s badass voice-overs, it all had me in love with the character and his strange perspective on the world. Like Fisher explains to his daughter, Sarah, in a flashback during Conviction, “You can see all kinds of things in the dark…” Sam is full of observations about the world, but his story is one of evolution and change; sadly, darkness plays a big role in the whole saga.

While the first game was a masterpiece, and its sequels Pandora Tomorrow and Chaos Theory for the original Xbox were just as good, or even better, than the original, the fourth installment, Double Agent, really tested my faith in the franchise. A colossal disappointment for me, as I’m a huge fan of the series. It had a cool moment or two, sure, and the gameplay evolved to keep up with the capabilities of the Xbox 360 — but the missions were bland, the action too familiar, and the story far less engaging than that of Chaos Theory, which is regarded by many as the first truly perfect video game — certainly among the best games for the original Xbox console, alongside Halo 2 and others.

Splinter Cell: Conviction

Following the death of Sam’s daughter, Sarah, Double Agent had players leading Fisher on a spiritual journey, chasing ghosts from within the terrorist organization John Brown’s Army, as well as his own U.S. Government Agency, the fictional NSA subdivision Third Echelon. In Conviction, Sam Fisher is a truly free agent, having no ties to his former career — only his friends, memories, and conviction remain. And as a result, the gameplay has changed a great deal to accommodate Fisher’s new temperament. Stealth is reduced to the bone, becoming merely a tactical component — most of the conversational and reconnaissance aspects of the game involve bashing an opponent’s head through a ceramic sink or window, or by targeting multiple enemies’ heads via the “Execute” gameplay function, hitting the “Y” button, and watching bullets and blood spray through the air with the level of flair and badassery you’d expect from a rogue Sam Fisher.

The story follows Sam through a series of revelations about the fate of his daughter, her killers, the now-dead (by Sam’s own hand, in Double Agent) Lambert, who was once Sam’s boss, and other former comrades — such as Agent Grimsdottir, and a fellow soldier who fought alongside Fisher in Iraq during the first Gulf War.

Long-time fans such as myself will find the story up to par with previous installments, and the scale of the events appealing — you get to talk to the fictional near-future President of the United States (a female, notably — feminists rejoice) directly, and eventually prevent her assassination; and there’s plenty of action surrounding the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, and most interestingly, the final mission takes place within 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the White House, itself. If you never thought something as patriotic, sacred, and beautiful as the White House could look grim, creepy, and downright sinister, then you’ll be surprised by how messy it gets in Conviction, complete with flickering florescents and blood-soaked wallpaper.

Splinter Cell: Conviction

While the story’s all that a fan could ask for, and more, it’s the gameplay mechanics, and just how damn much they’ve changed in this latest game, that really makes the title shine. Stealthy moves such as climbing, shimmying, et cetera, are made more fluid, and a hell of a lot faster than in previous games — apparently Sam’s been keeping in shape. It adds an improved sense of pace to the action, and also makes it easier to avoid the fray of gunfire that sometimes gets to be a little to hot for even Sam Fisher to handle. There’s a slew of new weaponry, which adds a lot of dimension to the gameplay, and all of the primary weapons — all pistols, in light of tradition — are fully customizable and feature unlimited ammo. If that isn’t enough to whet your thirst for stealthy shoot-outs, then the shotguns, submachine-guns, and SC6000s (as used by Sam in prior titles, now available when you…er, kill Splinter Cells) that you can pick up and equip at anytime will.

A surprising change that’s been made to the gameplay is the distinct lack of the one thing that has been Sam’s symbol — his “Batman ears,” as one UbiSoft director put it many years ago — his nightvision goggles. In fact, you don’t wear any sort of enhanced vision goggles until you’re over halfway through the solo campaign. In a mission near the end, you infiltrate — in a stealthy homage to classic Splinter Cell gameplay, which is full of nostalgia — the headquarters building of Third Echelon, and wreak all sorts of havoc. Along the way, you run into a cowering scientist who claims that he was once your biggest fan, and offers you a pair of prototypical goggles which he explains are a new type of sonar vision, which allows you not only to see enemies well in the darkness of an EMP-ravaged endgame, but also to actually see through walls, as if equipped with Superman-style X-ray vision.

Splinter Cell: Conviction

If all of the aforementioned data isn’t enough to have you drooling, lusting after the latest — and, quite possibly, final (though I certainly pray it isn’t) — Splinter Cell game, then the knowledge that it comes complete with online multiplayer, both “Face-Off” versus mode and at least two “Co-op” modes, in which players across the globe can pair up, or team up, to “Hunt” down and kill specified enemies, or fight off wave after wave in a horde/escalation-style mode that is a sure test of skill.

The visuals, controls, and physics of the game have evolved right along with Sam’s story and the massive changes that the gameplay has undergone in Conviction, and are a seamless, but aesthetically pleasing, transition from the highly acclaimed visuals, sounds, and physics of earlier titles — particularly those of Chaos Theory, which though released on the original Xbox, remains one of the most beautiful games of all time. No fan of the Splinter Cell saga shall be disappointed upon trying out Sam’s continued story in Conviction, and will certainly be delighted — or made furious — by more than a few shocking surprises along the way.

What Inception Taught Me

Saw Inception twice, and it’s quickly ascended well into the midst of my top 25 films list. Leonardo DiCaprio has always been an actor who has commanded my respect, and this latest film certainly earns him my highest favor — he’s a film star of the highest caliber, Romeo + Juliet aside. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Ellen Page and Cillian Murphy all get to truly flex their muscles and stretch their capabilities as well. A lot of mature, atypical casting calls makes for a crew of characters that really shine in the light of one another’s presence.

The film easily solidifies Christopher Nolan as one of my top three all-time favorite directors — next to Spielberg, for Minority Report and War of the Worlds; and next to James Cameron, for Aliens, The Abyss, and Avatar. Not only did Nolan craft one of the most aesthetically beautiful films of all time, he also penned the script. Unlike, say, Avatar, however, this contemporary fantasy (with a small taste of cyberpunk, minus all the nuts and bolts explanation) shines not because of its visuals — although they are pretty stellar, to understate my impression — but rather because of its superb screenplay. Easily the best-written movie I’ve ever seen in terms of an intricate, logical, well-plotted storyline that is well-suited for its audiovisual medium. Truly brilliant.

Watching the film a second time, I analyzed virtually every aspect of the story and how it is constructed, and in addition to coming up with my own cyberpunk concept — one I hope to use to fill several short stories and eventually a full-length novel — while actually watching the inspirational movie, I also had an epiphany about good storytelling. Good art, literature, film all has three components in common: emotionally-triggered reader/viewer sympathy, gained through the use of appropriate in-story relationships to which the audience can relate; well-conceived, original, and logical interrelated ideas from which the story develops, which can be generated through inspiration, Orson Scott Card’s prescribed “question session,” and old-fashioned thinking/outlining; and most importantly, philosophical illumination — good stories have to blow your mind, at least in some slight-of-hand way. They have to change your life, if only for a few days. They have to penetrate your beliefs, shatter your perceptions of reality, and lead you to question your existence. Those stories have staying power; they last for decades, centuries — not the ones that were written purely based upon a lack of thought and cliches.

Art is powerful. It changes us. And it damn well should — that’s why it’s created in the first place, I’d argue. Sure, some of it’s good, some of its bad; some lasts with us for years, changing our lives, some of it is purely for entertainment and is laughably illogical. My point is good films, good books, and good works of art — video games, on occasion — carry a sense of philosophical questioning, a handful of ideas and observations about the world that have gone previously unnoticed. Those works an audience never forgets, and the artists among that audience are granted a better understanding of their own craft and a fair dosage of inspiration. At least, that’s what Inception did for me.

No Fuel, No Fire

Jay Lake, a writer whom I vastly admire, gave me an invaluable snippet of advice recently.

He said:

Read read read. If you don’t have the time to read a lot, at least read the Year’s Best volumes, especially Dozois and Datlow. Read the magazines if you can, and decent selection of new release novels. Without fuel there is no fire.

No fuel, no fire; now that’s a bit of truth. Should seem obvious, but I’m willing to bet it’s a very overlooked piece of wisdom when it comes to mastering the craft of writing.

Writing is about learning, practicing, and perfecting a skillset that takes literally years and thousands of words to get even slightly good at. That’s frustrating, but there’s no way around it.

But writing can’t simply just happen. You don’t exist in a vacuum, drawing ideas out of the cosmos like some sort of alchemist. A writer uses imagination. Collecting ideas from the familiar world, synthesizing, performing intellectual and artistic fusion to create something that is unfamiliar.

Science fiction literature is a genre of ideas, illuminating some truth of humanity that hopefully hasn’t been completely explored before.

As an adult, someone hoping to become a serious, professionally published writer, it’s no longer socially acceptable — well, don’t let me control you — to play in the sandbox any longer. No longer entirely reasonable to draw ideas from cartoon shows and LEGOs, et cetera.

As adults, we have to forge our own private sandboxes — a place in which our muse can relax and cultivate wondrous ideas that will hopefully coalesce into an interesting, logical story and connect with readers of science fiction, fantasy, whatever genre you’re working in.

Mr. Lake put it well: Without fuel there is no fire. You can’t expect to sit down with your eyes against a blank white screen, watching that pixel-wide cursor flash against an idea-less void. You have to feed the imagination.

This requires, I believe, three things: 1) the ability to observe the knowable world, and assimilate the deeper meanings behind various human qualities and relationships, 2) the preexistence of the imagination, which was hopefully nurtured early in life; it is a sad truth that many lack this human luxury, and 3) the ability to feed the imagination.

As you write, you draw on life experiences and the observations you make about the world around you. But in order to create fiction, instead of autobiography, you have to be able to form your own ideas about the universe — or perhaps your own universe — from the imagination.

Reading is the most important way to strengthen the human imagination, hands down. To see, through the eyes of a writer, how a story progresses — and to analyze just how that story might have come about in the mind of the author — is a truly revelatory experience. Of course, it’s a guessing game, and it’s impossible to track the mental process of another human being, but it is possible to gather some important assumptions in the act of trying. More importantly, the thing you will always manage to do is improve at the craft. By seeing the word-by-word construction of a sentence, the varying syntax, the structure of paragraphs, the flow of chapters and their progression toward a climax and resolution, you learn the art of storytelling.

During times of static growth — that infamous “plateau” — solace can be found in the act of reading. And if you’re not reading, damnit, then you ought to be. There are other methods of exercising the imagination, as well.

Television is usually a big no-no in the realm of time-wasters, but films are an artform that can lend itself to improving the craft of writing and storytelling immensely. As a writing exercise, you could perhaps try writing a partial novelization of a film — perhaps just describing the duration of one short scene. This doesn’t exactly make for a submittable story — it’s stealing; plagiarism. But it would make for an excellent exercise. Reading novelizations for years helped me understand the difference between the cinematic artform and writing, and I think it’s benefited me greatly in terms of my growth process over the years.

Imitation is inevitable, it seems. By drawing on the appealing aspects of one writer’s style, one director’s sense of mood, one artist’s vision of the universe, one musician’s soul, a writer or artist can begin to find one’s own voice. It’s a long road, perhaps, but it resides deep within, somewhere buried amid the unconscious, waiting to collect the treasures life has to offer until one day surfacing in the form of a meaningful story.

If you’re going to take a week off from writing, that’s okay. Probably even a good thing; it can take a while to recover from the stress that sometimes — or oftentimes, for some of us — comes with the act of storytelling. Just make sure that if you do, you’re paying attention to the dialogue and scene structure of the films you’re watching. Make sure you’re reading a book constantly, dipping in for at least a couple hours a day. And if you’re going to play video games, you damned sinner, at least watch the cinematics. There’s fuel for the fire everywhere; you just have to have an eye out for it.

Red Dead Redemption Review, or… Why are American Westerns so damn awesome?

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Sergio Leone, Clint Eastwood, and the Spaghetti Western

When Homer wrote the Odyssey and the Iliad, he was inadvertently contributing to the vast canonical mythos of the Greeks. When the Vikings passed on the oratory tales of Thor and his mighty Mjolnir, they were creating a Norse mythology. When J.R.R. Tolkien sat down to pen the epic The Lord of the Rings, he was deliberately making an earnest attempt at creating a mythology for England.

When an Italian director named Sergio Leone undertook the filming of a grandiose American Western film saga, he was unknowingly creating the key characters, and stories, of the American Western mythos. While John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, and Kirk Douglas, among myriad other American actors, had long been reinacting the trials and tribulations of the Old West, and its mythic Frontier, no figure remains the keystone of the Western like Clint Eastwood and his Man With No Name trilogy.

Throughout the sixties, Leone directed four “Spaghetti Westerns” — so called to distinguish them from the very different U.S.-produced Westerns, which were less gritty, and also less…interesting, arguably. They lacked the humanity and inventiveness of Leone’s breakthrough films. The first, A Fistful of Dollars (1964), is a lackluster cinematic achievement, overall, but properly introduced the Man With No Name character — and turned Clint Eastwood into an international superstar. The first sequel, For a Few Dollars More (1965), was a far more successful film in terms of money made, storyline, and cinematic artistry. The gunfights were also slightly more interesting, making the mythical American Bounty Hunter seem far more larger-than-life. The third film in the trilogy, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966), is nothing short of a cinematic masterpiece, the masterwork of Leone’s career, and quite possibly the greatest film of all time.

Utilizing revolutionary cinematic techniques, wide panoramic shots akin to fine art, startlingly gritty close-ups, Ennio Morricone’s brilliant, guitar- and whistle-tinged score, and actors of the highest caliber, Sergio Leone crafted a film that I believe rivals the Mona Lisa in the realm of art.

Eastwood — The Good, Lee Van Cleef — The Bad, and Eli Wallach — The Ugly — give the best performances of their careers (okay, except for perhaps Gran Torino, but I could argue with myself for days about that), painting a vision of infantile America that rivals the poetic, epical nature of even LOTR or Beowulf. Seriously.

Once Upon a Time in the West

The fourth Leone Spaghetti Western, Once Upon a Time in the West, was a fairly critically acclaimed film, but began the downward trend of the perceived quality of Leone’s work in the genre. It features Henry Fonda in probably the most sinister, villainous role of his career, and replaces Clint Eastwood — and what a mistake this was, I’d argue — with Charles Bronson playing the new, less interesting Man With No Name. I’m not sure what Leone canon, if there is such a school of thought, claims about the character; it is my belief, however, that Bronson’s character is an entirely different individual, as he is seen playing a harmonica throughout the film as his sign of 1) someone’s going to die, and soon, and 2) he’s a badass, and don’t you forget it. Eastwood’s No-Name character used a cigar for this same purpose.

Regardless of the few merits it does lack, it’s still an outstanding film and probably better than at least the first of the Eastwood/Leone trilogy. Following Once Upon a Time in the West, Leone went on to make Duck, You Sucker! – a.k.a. A Fistful of Dynamite — which was a veritable failure in the scope of his presitigious, well-deserved career. It’s no wonder that Eastwood chose to discontinue his involvement with the Spaghetti Western genre at this point and begin his own directing career.

Following his directorial debut, Play Misty for Me (1971), he starred in John Sturges’ Joe Kidd (1972), a fairly respectable film, and then went on to direct his first Western, in which he also starred. High Plains Drifter (1973) marks a point in the American Western genre that I find to be pivotal.

Aside from the general good writing, acting, and frontier-based themes that are the keys of a good Western, High Plains Drifter introduced the world to the greater possibilities of the genre. As a writer myself, I see endless opportunities to build upon and diversify a genre that has been so rigid and unchanged for about a century of cinematic history. Louis L’Amour’s novels, I admit, I’m not really familiar with, but I have a very solid suspicion that his works don’t exactly break new ground. They likely rehash the same tired tropes again and again. I see a future for the genre that might mix the Western tale with steampunk, fantasy (well, okay, Stephen King got that one pretty much taken care of), or even horror. The possibilities are limitless. I won’t throw my ideas away just yet, though.

In Drifter, Eastwood’s character “The Stranger” is in fact a ghost — a spectral reincarnation of a man who was unjustly tortured and killed by a gang of lawless, ruthless bandits. It is a heartfelt, action-packed, and poetic romance about one spirit’s quest for vengeance and, in light of the mythic nature of the genre, resultant peace.

The film isn’t perfect, as it perpetuates the ancient sexist idea that yes means no, and women enjoy being raped — hell, they might even love you afterwords. A dangerous idea, but I’m sure that Eastwood would be the first to say that 1) they probably were wrong to include that element in the film, 2) it’s historically accurate, so get off my back, and 3) it’s not like Lord Eastwood, God of the Film World actually agrees with that sort of nonsense. It’s fiction, just like everything else.

Its strongest points, like so many Westerns, is its strong sense of storytelling, and its the ability to satisfy certain Freudian longings, like the revolver. The phallic symbol of the gun, most prominently the revolver pistol, is a recurring theme that is the silent centerpiece of all Western literature, art, and cinema. Drifter satisfies the human love — an unconscious one, but I’ll be damned if it isn’t there — of violence. Specifically good, old-fashioned gunfights. Why do you think The Matrix (2000) was such a hit? Sure, it had all the sexy cyberpunk trimmings, anime tropes, and leathery goodness you could shake a stick at — in slow motion, in fact — but it was all that fun violence that made it a hit. And, just maybe, the philosophical underpinnings. But don’t you think those are a part of the Western genre’s appeal as well?

Red Dead Redemption

Red Dead Redemption

So why tell you all this? No one cares about Westerns anymore, right? Well, no, that’s not really accurate. In fact, the Western genre is alive and well. Case in point: the 2007 Christian Bale/Ben Foster/Russell Crowe remake of the classic film 3:10 to Yuma, the just-released-in-theaters Jonah Hex (2010), starring Josh Brolin, John Malkovich, and Megan Fox; and last, but not least, the Xbox 360/PS3 video game Red Dead Redemption (2010), the sequel to the original Xbox hit Red Dead Revolver from Rockstar Games’ San Diego division.

The game is a sure sign that video games are getting better all the time, in all aspects. While it lacks the sort of sophistication showcased by state-of-the-art games like Modern Warfare 2 or Splinter Cell: Conviction, it successfully uses the tried-and-true free-roam gameplay of the Grand Theft Auto series, namely GTA IV, from which this title gets it graphics engine and overall aesthetic.

The player takes control of gunslinger John Marsden, a man with a vendetta, a dark past, and a score to settle — and there’s always a score to be settled, isn’t there? In GTA and in Westerns? His wife and son, it is quickly learned, were killed as a result of some event in the player’s immediate past. Also, it is made known that John was once in a gang of criminals, with whom he now has a rather weighty beef. Revenge plot? Almost undoubtedly; I haven’t quite finished the game yet, and I’m not the type to spoil an ending.

Red Dead Redemption

In what is likely the absolute largest free-roam, fully rendered environment ever featured in a video game, players are able to plot destinations upon a detailed map of the region known as “New Austin,” and set about on a fairly loose quest that makes for a very interesting and entertaining storyline.

The usual Rockstar humor is there, but the writing in this particular title takes on a much more serious tone than, say, GTA: Vice City. The character is someone the player comes to care about, not some clown or mere digital puppet. This game has a story, and a grandiose, well-written one, at that. The amount of work that went into crafting the script alone is mind-boggling.

The world is one of beautiful scenery, rich characters, and exciting gameplay. The A.I. is both intelligent and difficult, and the controls are seamless. There is the occasional tiny glitch, such as the horse getting stuck in a grouping of rocks, but the gameplay physics couldn’t be more impressive. Riding a horse, aiming a rifle, and downing enemies sounds like a lot to juggle, but the game has been designed in such a way that it’s actually not that hard at all. In fact, it’s quite addicting.

Why is the genre so damn awesome, so endlessly appealing? Is it because I was raised in America? Is it because there’s some savage, subconscious appeal to the idea of lawlessness and so-called “social justice” amid a barren frontier civilization? I’d like to think its appeal runs deeper than mere saddles and bullets, but I can only speculate.

For me, it’s all about having a different flavor of myth, one rich, fresh, and relatable. An American Mythology. As art grows and regresses, Westerns always crop up in one place or another. I only hope that they’ll continue to evolve, as well.

Because art and literature are two of the only frontiers which shall forever remain eternal.

Writing Goals: 2010 and Beyond

2009

In 2009, I wrote 25,061 words of fiction.

25,061 words = 1 novelette, 1 novel chapter (abandoned work), 1 flash piece, 1 short story; 3 finished manuscripts.

That’s a good total, but it was mostly the result of only one piece I’m fairly satisfied with, and another which I’ve revised to death in an attempt to make it publishable. The flash piece was a school Creative Writing II assignment, which I’m not happy with, and the single-chapter novel beginning was trash — a mere exercise to recharge my fiction-writing batteries.

This stuff was a challenge to do for one reason: I’d been taking a break from writing. At 13, I wrote a 209-page manuscript in less than 2 months. From then on, I didn’t finish anything. Started two or three novels, abandoned them. Along the way, I created some characters, some worlds, some ideas that are still dancing about in my head — one such tale became my first Writers of the Future entry, for Quarter 2 of 2010. The results of that quarter have yet to be announced, but I have a hunch that I’ll be lucky to get an Honorable Mention. It was fun to write, and I love the damned thing, but it’s just not up to par with some of the stuff I’ve read in those anthologies. Why kid myself?

2010

On February 23, 2010, I made my first-ever manuscript submission for publication to Weird Tales, the short story I’d been working to death since, say, October ’09. It was, months later following a query, rejected.

Since then, I’ve been rejected a total of 19 times.

19 rejections in roughly a four-month period. I need to increase my output. If I can write a story a week, or even a story at least every two weeks — hell, occasionally two stories a week would be possible, but I’m sure the quality would suffer as a result.

Rejections make you want more, for editors to see your name more frequently. So you write more to compensate, and thereby increase your chances of success. If you can combat your fears of failure — irrational fears, born of myth and nay-sayers — then there’s no reason why a person can’t write like hell and eventually succeed. How much is a lot of writing, what is quality writing, and how easy success comes is both a matter of luck and subjectivity. There’s no way to really quantify it. Eventually, persistence prevails.

So far in 2010, I’ve written 30,573 words of fiction. That’s for half the year. These figures, admittedly, are slightly inaccurate due to the sole fact that the novelette listed as a 2009 piece was in fact finished in 2010, across November-January, little by little.

30,573 words = 5 short stories, 1 finished novelette, 1 abandoned longer work (probably will be eventually redrafted as a novella or novel, in the future); 6 finished manuscripts

The good news is this: by next week, my “Race Score” should be at 9; nine submissions, nine different manuscripts at nine different paying speculative fiction markets.

The bad news is this: I wasted a lot of time the last few months, as a result of the stress caused by school. College. Ugh…terrible.

My goal, then, shall be to have 40 manuscripts on the market by 2011. That could be somewhere around 200,000 words. That’s as much as two whole novels. Perhaps I shall even write a novel or two before I finish college, then; I’ve got two whole years left. Why the hell not? I’ve got nothing to lose, but everything to gain. If things go as well as they have been, school will go fine. My first semester, I ended up with something like a 3.6 GPA; the best I’ve had since, I’d say, eighth grade.

200,000 words? Can it be done? Hard to tell. Already I’ve written a fair amount, but the year’s half over. It’s going to require effort, discipline, and routine — writing must become habit. Not just ambition, the here-and-there dabbling of the unpublished amateur. I have to work toward success if I ever expect to achieve it.

If I’m going to limit myself to a goal of a measley 40 manuscripts — all for the sake of not killing myself once school starts up again — then I’m going to make sure I push myself in the direction of novella- and novel-length work at least at some point in the near future. I’m sitting on a lot of worldbuilding, a lot of ideas, but I need to hone my skills, practice the craft, and work towards mastery before I attempt the first serious novel project. It ain’t Jr. High no more, sadly. Henceforth, this is serious.

200,000 words for 2010. If it comes easily, maybe I’ll double it for 2011. Again — who knows?

I’ve decided that I’m going to set aside the How-to-Write books and obsessive online networking, et cetera, in favor of the two things that truly matter: reading and writing. My blog, therefore, is going to lean towards documenting 1) my writing progress, any successes, and how close I am to achieving my goals, and 2) writing book reviews, because I think that sort of thing is very helpful to those who may be in need of a good reading experience.

Learning the Craft

Learning the Craft

Learning the craft of writing is a lifelong endeavor, filled with hard work, frustration, and the occasional perplexity that comes with mastering any art or skill. It begins with the fabled moment of devotion — when a young reader realizes, quite plainly, that s/he would like to write. This most often comes at some great revelation, following either a specific incident or the interplay of various circumstances — I imagine for many that would involve being told by others that one has “talent” as a writer. Recently, a professor of mine informed me that I was “probably the best writer I’ve ever had in one of my classes, in all my years of teaching.” Which doesn’t bode well for the majority of young people turning in essays comprised of the written word; in fact, I put almost zero effort into the papers I did for that class.

Which means that things like the mythic “talent” and how developed one’s writing skills are is largely dependent on the scope by which that skill is measured. In a class of thirty, even multiplied by, say, 3-5 “sections,” over 30 years, only forms a sample group of 3,600 students, give or take. Meaning that, as much as I’d like to value such an opinion as that professor’s, it really doesn’t mean anything in the context of the worldwide publishing industry. It’s likely that every single fiction author published at this very moment, across the globe, has heard the same thing from someone at one point in their lives.

Therefore, I would argue that in order to measure your own skill level as a writer, you had better be comparing yourself on the basis of 1) how well you communicate your ideas, 2) what merit outside of your own damnable ego your writing has generated throughout the course of your career, and 3) what editors and readers tell you about it. Readers, sadly, does not necessarily  include your American History professor. Or your girlfriend. Twilight, despite what the teen girls will tell you, does not constitute the apex of quality fiction and therefore, if that’s all your girlfriend has read in the past year or so, then she isn’t a proper critic in regards to your grasp of writing.

1. Why write?

Learning the craft of writing for me began as a challenge to myself, a life-spanning challenge, to one day have my name grace the same shelves that held names that as a young child I saw and came to understand held weight in the fiction world — names like King, Rowling, Grisham, and Cussler. Each and every time I saw a movie like Star Wars, or Minority Report, or Raiders of the Lost Ark, I understood that these stories were by no means monumental in and of themselves, but yet they held a weight generated by some unperceived bond. That bond, of course, was a writer’s or artist’s ability to capture and hold the attention of his/her audience.

Like many young readers, during my first wanderings into the bookstore — fond memories I share with my father, who actually prefers non-fiction — I was immediately drawn in by the sheer gravity of King’s name, the way his massive books were presented. Oftentimes they bore merely a simple, 1- to 2-word title and a very simple, sublime image on their cover. Simplicity drew me in. A deeper understanding of the mysticism housed within each and every early book I read. Like most young readers, I was carried into the stories, transported to a realm far beyond this world, without ever consciously being aware of the syntax or style of the words on the page.

Now, few college professors would readily gush to you regarding the eloquence or beauty of King’s prose, but a great many of them would readily admit that they’ve read of a few of his works. Most would even agree that The Stand is nothing short of a masterpiece. The reason for this, I suspect, is that Mr. King crafted a story that was larger than himself, and somehow managed to effectively transcribe it onto the page using the written word. Without sacrificing story, the heart of all fiction — and possibly humanity, if you care to know my opinion — for the sake of style.

What about style? Style is the writer’s choice of diction, or the level of wordiness, leaped versus leapt, et cetera, and also the writer’s use of syntax, or the basic mechanics of the writing. By combining words — diction, if you don’t mind the word — in a particular order, a successful writer can achieve a complete thought, or statement, to create meaning. Pretty frickin incredible if you ask me, but it doesn’t come as easily as it sounds. You’ve got to practice to get good at it — hence the term craft.

2. The Components of Writing

When I decided at age 10, 11 maybe, that I wanted to write fiction, I worked on the basis of three pretty important components: instinct, which is an arguable virtue but can account for many human acts done without logical reasoning beforehand — that is, if you act without having to think, you are acting on instinct; prior knowledge, or the little bit of cumulative experience you have with the craft based on a person’s own previous reading, writing, and learning (the three are virtually entwined; you can have none of the three without the other two); and last, but most importantly, imagination. I grew up in an environment that fostered and encouraged the act of playing as a child, and that valued activities like drawing, role-playing, and so forth.

When these three components fail to lead to the writing of a masterpiece, many budding writers give up — fail, and rightfully so, for they have done no work to achieve the level of success they seek. Practice is a key component of any craft, and with writing there is no difference — as with all crafts, you must practice continually if you wish for your skills to grow instead of decline.

If discipline and practice (essentially together, as one basic idea — effective thinking and writing is all about the logical and deliberate association of related ideas with one another) are the fourth component of learning the craft of writing, then the fifth component of writing is developing a critical mind, which is used to carefully cultivate and develop stories from the raw ideas that generate them.

There is little good to be gained by “writing critically,” however it is possible to develop a story’s basic outline prior to ever writing a single word of a story; by having a developed idea or framework of the story you wish to write, your creative act can be done under less stress and the ever-destructive mechanism of self-doubt that is often present in our minds as we write and create.

Instead, a good storyteller should take note of the world around him/her, and likewise take note of the various parts which make a given story interesting or even outstanding. While certain aspects of everyday life are meaningless or seem boring, others might be profound and make great stories. Similarly, some stories might do nothing whatsoever to stimulate a given reader — other stories might thrill that reader like no story has ever done before. When that happens, the reader soars with wonder — but once it’s time to come back down to Earth, the critical mind a writer has developed should be able to pinpoint the various reasons why a story interested him/her.

3. Learning the Craft by Reading

In addition to reading a story for the communicated element, the story, a writer should pick up a given writer’s distinguishing flavor by paying attention to diction, syntax, and narrative scope, strategies, et cetera.

If all I ever read was Stephen King’s work (well, sure, that wouldn’t be too bad at all), I would have a very narrow view of narrative strategy. In fact, most would consider my work incredibly verbose, bulky, full of useless exposition and narrative summary. King, on the other hand, pulls off what many consider to be a handful of “no-nos” in his writing because, quite simply, he’s proven his worth to the fiction-reading and -writing world.

On the other hand, if all I ever read was Tobias S. Buckell, people would question whether I was qualified to write about such distinctive and diverse cultures despite my Midwestern upbringing. My writing would lack WASPs, which is good for diversity’s sake, but my characters would all be complete fabrications — they would not feel like real people, which characters are supposed to, but would come across as pretentious. Similarly, if all I ever read was Chuck Palahniuk, then I would be shunned for my peculiar sparseness and lack of quotation marks, et cetera.

While some imitation is inevitable, you should select characteristics of other authors’ works that suit your own individual “inner voice,” or style, serving to tell only your own story, rather than retell the works of others. Imitation is usually easy to spot, and I imagine for editors very easy to reject.

4. Books On Writing

Stephen King’s On Writing helped me to come to understand the writer whom I care most about, the guy I probably owe it all to, despite the vast differences between our styles and subject matter. To forge your own path, it’s helpful to know how others got there, and I’ll be damned if King hasn’t “gotten there.” He blows a lot of long-standing myths about the creative process out of the water, and does a lot to help the reader understand why he does what he does. His works beg for thorough psychoanalytical criticism, but pedantic critics probably don’t feel his works are worthy of such understanding. The man knows his stuff; the book probably changed my life in a multitude of ways. For one, it got me to start taking writing seriously and to begin submitting my works for publication. Thanks, Steve.

Orson Scott Card’s How to Write Science Fiction & Fantasy and Character & Viewpoint have recently done wonders for my understanding of the art of storytelling. Characters are what matter to readers, and so therefore a beginning writer often neglects the very soul of his/her story by ignoring character development in favor of artificial critical constructs like “plot” and “setting.” Like Stephen King says in On Writing, stories can be no more than a handful of characters in a situation. If you want realism, throw plot out altogether. Card’s more of a traditionalist. With science fiction, I’m starting to feel that’s fairly necessary; unless you plan to revise a work for years, you are best off doing the homework ahead of time — the drafting process is made a lot more enjoyable that way. Writing should be fun, after all.

Self-Editing for Fiction Writers (Ed. Renni Browne and Dave King) discusses a lot of various methods of time-saving and polishing that will turn a decent manuscript into a great one, given a writer is wise enough to judge the needs of his work. Definitely a must-read for upcoming writers who have a few manuscripts in circulation that are getting personal rejections, or that workshops are saying have a few minor point-of-view problems, narrative problems, lack of character development/motivation, et cetera.

The Elements of Style (Strunk & White) is a handy guidebook for one particular “school” of writing — thankfully, that “school” is the presently dominant one. Clear, concise, to-the-point writing is the montra of this book. It’s a quick read, and the lessons it imparts are everlasting. If your prose is long and full of needless words, this book may be a necessary remedy.